The next day, when they set off, the journey didn’t unfold as Song Yu had imagined—with a helicopter ride. Instead, after disembarking onto the ice, they used snowmobiles from the ice station.
The vehicles were red and white, still emblazoned with bold “Chinese Arctic Expedition” lettering on their sides.
Pei Zhi expertly loaded the tents and gear onto them. The narrow snowmobiles held more than expected.
Song Yu stood nearby, clutching her camera, feeling at a loose end and unable to lend a hand.
“Do you need me to do anything?” she couldn’t help asking.
Pei Zhi looked up, spotting the captain approaching into the wind. He pointed toward the distant safety cabin. “There’s a black bag inside. Fetch it.”
Song Yu nodded obediently and trudged through the deep snow, jogging step by step to the cabin. As she passed the captain, she gave him a nod, looking rather sheepish—like a child who’d gotten her way with a tantrum but now felt guilty about it.
The captain shook his head helplessly, reached out to pat her shoulder, and cautioned, “Stick close to Captain Pei. Stay safe.”
After this brief exchange, the captain strode to the snowmobile and propped his elbow on the front end. “The weather team’s report says the next couple of days will be clear. Low chance of a blizzard.”
Pei Zhi secured the tent bag to the rack with bungee cords, glanced at him, and murmured a flat acknowledgment.
“Relax, it’ll be fine. Since when did you get so cautious?” the captain said.
The captain sighed. “I’d be fine with you along, of course. I just thought better safe than sorry.”
His eyes flicked toward the safety cabin. Seeing Song Yu hadn’t emerged yet, he lowered his voice. “There’s something I haven’t mentioned. Someone went on and on about me taking good care of her—no slip-ups allowed.”
Scientific work far from base was routine for the expedition team. They’d camped on islands for a day or two before. But Song Yu had no experience. That was why he’d objected so vehemently yesterday—to talk her out of it, to keep her safe where he could see her.
At this, Pei Zhi’s hands paused briefly on the bungee cords. Otherwise, he showed little reaction.
The captain, however, adopted a gossipy tone. “Guess who?”
Without waiting for Pei Zhi to ask, he spilled it eagerly. “Zhou Yan, the young heir of Zhou Heng International. Heard of him? Their family has pull in Northern Europe, and plenty of our supplies came through his channels.”
In his earlier years, the captain had frequently run shipping routes from China to Europe and had even managed the Zhou family’s international transport division.
He rubbed his hands and grinned. “Didn’t you notice how good the expedition grub has been? High-end caviar, even.”
The captain nudged Pei Zhi’s arm. “Hey, you think Zhou Yan and Song Yu are…?”
Pei Zhi was inspecting the snowmobile’s dashboard, his dark eyes lowered, lips pressed thin. He remained silent.
After chattering on with no response, the captain lost interest, pursed his lips, and said, “Whatever. Can’t talk this stuff with you. Better with Xiao Chi—he’d know all the dirt.”
He adjusted his wind-tousled hat, waved farewell, and added, “I’m off. Stay safe.”
Once the captain had gone, Pei Zhi stared at the dashboard gauges, taking a moment to collect himself. For no clear reason, irritation stirred within him, and he exhaled deeply.
Just then, Song Yu approached, cradling the black bag. “Is this the one?”
Their gazes met. He glanced indifferently and gestured. “Hand it over.” His tone was cool, devoid of emotion.
Leaning across the snowmobile, she passed it to him. “It’s pretty heavy,” she noted.
In their back-and-forth, Song Yu had grown more proactive without realizing it.
Pei Zhi seized the bag’s two straps in one hand and hoisted it effortlessly, stacking it atop the gear pile that already towered like a small mountain. Finally, he added the anti-polar bear gun.
“Can we get going?” Song Yu asked.
Pei Zhi glanced at her and extended his hand. “Photography bag.”
“Oh,” she said, swiftly handing over the bag slung across her shoulder.
She’d brought plenty of gear this time—a drone among it. Most was already loaded; only her portable photography bag remained, holding her go-to DSLR camera.
One of the bag’s two latches was undone. Pei Zhi, ever meticulous, reached to fasten it. But something inside bulged out, refusing to close.
He frowned and instinctively popped the latch to rearrange the contents.
Spotting this, Song Yu recalled what was inside. She darted around to his side, snatched the bag, and said hurriedly, “I’ll handle it, I’ll handle it.”
She angled her body to shield the bag, fumbling out the wooden doll, clutching it tight, then shoving it swiftly into her jacket pocket and zipping it shut.
Pei Zhi was tall; Song Yu figured she’d concealed it well. In truth, he’d caught every furtive move—and spotted the item itself.
The old man puppet’s eyes gaped empty, familiar to him. It had once sat on a cabinet in the Pei Residence.
On a recent visit home, Pei Zhenshan had idly brought up the puppet’s fate.
If memory served, Zhou Yan had snapped it up at auction. The Zhou and Pei families had overseas business ties once; they weren’t strangers.
Pei Zhenshan had said Zhou Yan bought it for a girl. He’d even mentioned encountering her in Guangxi, speaking highly of her.
Pei Zhi looked away, pretending not to notice.
He tugged the corner of his mouth.
She had a boyfriend, yet here she was, baiting him.
The snowmobile pulled away from the ice station, engine humming steadily across the vast white plain.
The rear, crammed with equipment, left little room.
Song Yu sat behind Pei Zhi, bodies close. She braced her hands backward in an awkward stance to avoid pressing nearer, barely holding distance. Even then, leg touched leg.
The seemingly short hop to the iceberg took ages by snowmobile before they reached the islet opposite. On the snow-blanketed land, the ride turned rough, jostling them tighter until her chest met his back.
Pei Zhi handled the machine masterfully, charging any terrain, jolting along.
He pushed the speed, wind slashing her face like doubled force, eyes stinging cold. Unable to endure, she bowed her head, forehead against his back.
Crossing a half-meter ice drop, Song Yu instinctively looped her arms around his waist.
Pei Zhi’s grip tightened on the handlebars. He stayed still, letting her cling.
They traveled in prolonged silence, saying nothing.
Song Yu sensed Pei Zhi’s foul mood but, with his habitual coolness, couldn’t pin it down.
As she mulled this, the snowmobile eased to a halt. The island’s upper slopes grew too steep for it.
The highest viewpoint lay close, though. Pei Zhi shouldered the gun and tent bag, striding upward.
Song Yu hefted her photography bag and trailed him.
Pei Zhi’s pace was brisk, long strides heedless of her behind.
Song Yu labored after, cold and load sapping her strength. Each step dragged.
At minus twenty degrees, her heaving breaths drew in frigid air that scorched her throat.
She eyed the man’s back ahead—upright, stubborn. Temper inexplicably flared in her.
“I can’t walk anymore,” she called forward.
Pei Zhi halted at last and turned.
Higher up, his dark eyes gazed down, imperious.
Song Yu craned her neck defiantly, then plopped into the snow. “I need a rest.”
Her voice held a petulant lilt, soft and indolent.
No one could refuse such a tone.
Pei Zhi met her eyes—wind-reddened, limpid, clear. The same gaze she’d turned on others.
Expressionless, he said, “No garbage from the landing can be left on the glacier.”
Song Yu caught the mockery’s sting and laughed despite her anger.
Feigning nonchalance, she blinked and drawled teasingly, “So what garbage am I? Professor Pei, classify me.”
His dark eyes bored into her face, sly glint in her moist gaze. His mind flashed to the rainforest depths, that woman needing discipline—like now.
He clenched his jaw, voice frosty. “The start-but-abandon kind.”
Song Yu blinked, caught off guard. His deep voice laced words with veiled accusation.
Oddly, her spirits lifted.
Tension hung in the air a beat.
Pei Zhi turned without another word and resumed walking.
Song Yu pursed her lips, scrambled up, and jogged after.
“Who did I start with and abandon?” she asked, though she knew.
Pei Zhi cast her a faint glance, seeing right through her pretended ignorance.
Song Yu watched him sulking, finding the sight more and more amusing. A subtle smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“He Fu did confess to me,” Song Yu admitted frankly, “but I didn’t accept him.”
She tilted her head, thinking it over. “That was just this morning, though. How did you find out so quickly?”
…
Pei Zhi’s expression darkened even further.
“I don’t know,” he said coldly.